Rain still lingered in the gutters like the city was trying to wash itself clean—but it never did. Jerry walked with his hood up, soaked to the bone, every step a scream in his muscles.
He didn't remember running home. Just fragments.
Ash in the air. The taste of metal in his mouth. The glyph on his palm pulsing like a second heartbeat. The smell of burned flesh that wasn't his.
He didn't remember knocking on the door either.
But suddenly, it opened—and his mother stood there.
She gasped.
Her hand flew to her mouth like she'd seen a ghost.
"Jerry?"
He blinked through the drizzle. "It's me, Mom."
She didn't move. Her face twisted—something between joy and horror. Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn't come closer.
"I saw your name," she whispered. "On the list. They said you were… dead."
Jerry stepped forward. "I should be. But I'm not."
She let him in, hesitantly. Like she wasn't sure if she was dreaming or inviting in a demon.
Inside, everything smelled normal. Clean. Warm. Safe.
It didn't match what he'd become.
They sat across from each other in the kitchen. Her tea steamed between them. His hands trembled as he held the cup. He didn't drink it.
She asked questions.
He answered what he could.
Her silence said more than words.
When she finally reached over to touch his face, her fingers flinched back at his temperature. Cold. Not right.
"Get some rest," she said. But her voice broke near the end.
He went upstairs.
He didn't sleep.
Two days passed like smoke.
Jerry went back to school.
Everyone stared.
Some whispered.
He tried to act normal. Go to class. Take notes. Ignore the way his skin rippled sometimes when someone bumped into him.
At lunch, food tasted like sand. He kept smelling blood, even when no one was bleeding.
The whispers in his head didn't stop.
They just… got quieter. More familiar.
It was on the way home that everything broke again.
He took a shortcut through 14th and Harker. Big mistake.
Three men stepped out from an alley, laughing. Dirty jackets, bruised knuckles, and twitchy fingers on worn pistols.
"Yo, pretty boy," the leader said, waving his gun. "Nice backpack. Hand it over."
Jerry raised his hands slowly. "I don't want trouble."
"Oh, you already found it."
The second thug grabbed Jerry's bag. The third shoved him into the wall.
He hit hard. Felt the concrete crack.
"Yo, check this freak's hand," one of them said, grabbing Jerry's wrist.
The glyph.
Black, spider-vein patterns twisting across his palm.
"What the hell is this? Tattoo?"
The gun cocked beside his temple.
"Let's see if it bleeds."
Then—
The world snapped.
Jerry's vision tunneled. Breath hitched. Blood roared in his ears like drums from the deep.
The glyph ignited.
Black tendrils slithered from his spine. His skin tore. Eyes glowed. Claws unfolded like knives.
Abyssborn Initiate.
The thugs screamed.
He moved.
Too fast.
Too strong.
In seven seconds, it was over.
One lay sprawled against the wall, body snapped in half like a broken doll. Another had been flung into the alley, ribs shattered, barely breathing.
The third—the one with the gun—had no face left to scream with.
Jerry stood there, shaking.
His hands—claws—dripped.
His heart pounded like war drums, and his breath came in huffs like some ancient beast.
What did I do?
He looked at the carnage.
He staggered back. Dropped to his knees.
"No… no, no—"
The glyph slowly dimmed.
The claws retracted.
The tendrils slipped back beneath the skin.
Jerry stared at his hands.
They were his again.
But the blood wasn't going anywhere.
45 Minutes Later
Police tape fluttered in the wind. Sirens wailed. Flashbulbs lit up the alley.
"Jesus Christ," an officer muttered, vomiting into the gutter.
The lead detective, a gray-suited woman with eyes like flint, examined the wall where the symbol had burned itself into the stone.
"No gunpowder residue," she noted. "No casings. No witnesses."
Another officer knelt by the one survivor—barely breathing, eyes rolling in his head.
"What did this?" the detective asked.
The officer didn't answer.
But the scarred glyph smoldering on the concrete said enough.
FBI Briefing Room – Next Morning
Screens displayed autopsy photos. Thermal drone footage showed only static during the attack.
A man in a black coat tapped the screen.
"No clear identity. No prints. Just this."
He pointed to the image of the glyph.
"Project Abyss Core," he said. "They buried it three years ago."
A woman crossed her arms. "Well, someone just dug it back up."
The agent narrowed his eyes.
"Find whoever did this. Before it forgets how to be human."
To be continued…